


Perfect Shots

by chaineddove



Category: Tiger & Bunny
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-01
Updated: 2013-03-01
Packaged: 2017-12-04 00:50:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/704563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaineddove/pseuds/chaineddove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Listen," she says, taking a deep breath, wishing she didn't feel quite so much like she is kicking the cheerfully panting dog thumping its tail against the sidewalk, "you seem to have the wrong idea."  And thanks to him, so does absolutely everyone else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfect Shots

**Author's Note:**

> The road to cougar-dom is lined with good intentions. I don't even know, seriously. It's pretty unabashedly crack. But Keith is precious and Nathan is fabulous, and that is as it should be.

When you need something done right, sometimes there's no choice but to do it yourself. This shot - provided she doesn't go crashing to the pavement, twenty stories down, and isn't it lucky she's never been scared of heights? – will get them the sort of ratings she hasn't seen since the manhunt for Wild Tiger. Hero TV _needs_ these ratings; it has been too quiet around Sternbild lately. She could kiss the half-crazed NEXT floating in the center of the miniature cyclone wreaking havoc across the Silver Stage. Shattered windows, crushed cars, and screaming civilians – this guy is pure ratings _gold_. She is crawling across the edge of the roof, her hair in her eyes, her skirt riding up her hips, but is rewarded with a perfect, uninterrupted line of sight to the villain's face as he lets out a shout and spreads his arms. The cyclone responds, roaring its fury, and then, just in the nick of time, bless him, thank you, and once again, thank you, Sky High comes hurtling down from above, crashing through the wall of wind, shouting something – it's sure to be his usual, predictable catchphrase, so the fact that the mic doesn't pick it up is no big deal, they can edit it back in for the evening news rerun – and then they are grappling, and Sky High is thrown against a building, leaving an imprint in the concrete and yes, Agnes thinks, a little danger for the hero will only make this more exciting, and really, she hopes the hapless pansy of a cameraman stranded on the ground behind a barricade of cars piled one over the other is taking notes.

The battle lasts two solid minutes – eons, in television time – before Sky High finally manages to subdue his opponent. The wind abruptly stops, and Agnes, who has been bracing against the tiny ledge, loses her grip on the camera, and then, as she fumbles to catch it, on the ledge; she barely has time to open her mouth to scream before she is caught against the hero's metal-clad chest, with a jarring impact that will certainly leave bruises – but then, better bruised than dead – and a cheer goes up from below as the live announcer awards rescue points. She can only hope her skirt isn't bunched entirely around her waist and be glad that she wore particularly nice underwear today. Of course _now_ the pansy's camera is pointed right at her, and the wolf whistles have started, so she really has no choice – she flutters her lashes, and gives Sky High a throaty, "My hero," for the benefit of the audience before hissing thorough clenched teeth, "get me down before I break every bone in your body."

The cameraman is beet-red as she stalks towards him, straightening her clothing. "I hope you learned something," she snaps at him, and he doesn't seem to have a death wish, because he doesn't mention the skirt and her hair and the fact that she just flashed her thong to a live audience of millions.

"Uh-huh," he says, swallowing audibly.

"Get all this back to the station," she says in disgust. Then, when he doesn't move fast enough to suit her, she barks out, " _Now!_ " He nearly drops the tripod he is folding, but speeds his motions.

Her cell phone beeps. A message from her associate producer dutifully reports the ratings – high enough that she feels almost vindicated, panty shot and all – and with a slight smile, she runs her hand through her mussed hair and gets back to work.

***

The massive bouquet barely fits through the door. She stares at it, a little slack-jawed, as the new intern – dwarfed by the flowers – carries it across the room and dumps it in her arms. "What – why – "

"Miss Agnes, it's for _you_ ," the intern says with obvious glee.

This is not the first unwanted overture she has received since her unfortunate fall – her thong has made her temporarily famous – but it is by far the most lavish. She tosses the flowers on her desk and curses. The intern lets out a hysterical giggle. "Don't you have something to do?" Agnes demands.

"I'll go find you a bucket," the intern chirps. "These won't fit in a vase."

"You can take them and – " but the intern is already gone, and it is too late for Agnes to tell her where she can shove the five dozen roses. She spares a glance to the card, then stares incredulously at the carefully formed handwriting - _I am sorry! And I thank you for not breaking every bone in my body!_

"Absolutely _not_ ," she says to the empty room, then throws the card in the trash.

***

"You help us all the time. I enjoyed the chance to help you, Miss Agnes," Keith says, and she can imagine his face as though he is standing in front of her, beaming that thousand-watt smile like the idiot he obviously is.

"That is _not_ the point," she tells him.

"Didn't you like the flowers?" he asks.

"You shouldn't have sent me flowers in the first place," she tries to explain, because simply yelling at him won't do any good; her words will roll off of him like water off a duck's back unless she remembers to keep to simple concepts and short words. "Listen, my entire office smells like a Valentine's Day nightmare, it was a hassle for the intern to find a bucket to fit all those roses, and you were just doing your job – "

"I understand," he tells her. Before she can ask him exactly what he thinks he's understood – it would not be the first time he has taken something simple and turned it into something incomprehensible – he disconnects.

***

The next week he sends tulips – scentless – in a bright yellow glass vase. The note says, _I apologize! And again, I apologize for causing a hassle at your office!_

She shouts at her veteran sound guy so viciously that afternoon that he quits on the spot.

***

"A woman in love shouldn't be frowning."

Agnes pokes her finger into Fire Emblem's chest. "If I find out this was _your idea_ , Seymour – "

"Oh honey, I'd never," he says, and flutters his own lashes in imitation of the television clip which has now gone viral on the internet with the caption, **SKY HIGH'S SECRET LOVER!** and five million hits to date. "I wouldn't wish you on him. You'd eat him alive."

"Well," she says, " _good_."

"That doesn't mean," Nathan drawls, "that this isn't the most entertaining thing to happen in this city since Handsome came back to the training center gym."

"Keep me out of your perverse fantasies," she tells him.

"Don't worry," he says with a wink. "You're not _my_ type at all."

She can see Sky High standing with Rock Bison across the room, and though he is wearing his helmet – this is an official Hero TV function, after all – his head is turned in their general direction and she has the sneaking suspicion he is watching her. "You are not comforting in the least."

***

A few enterprising photographers follow her around as she does her shopping that weekend. Origami Cyclone even photobombs a few of the shots – as though she is some kind of celebrity. The whole thing makes her seethe, especially because she's pretty sure her face has been photoshopped to remove her scowl and the semi-permanent stress line between her eyebrows. And her mole, for whatever reason. Paparazzi are stupid; she can't really fathom why they do things. There is _nothing_ wrong with her mole.

She storms into the training center gym, waving the paper, and rounds on Keith. "This has to stop," she tells him.

"Miss Agnes!" he says, delight evident in his voice. He rises from the bench of the leg press – he's pressing three times her body weight, she cannot help but note – and wipes his face with a towel. "I saw that magazine," he tells her. "You look very nice on the cover. I did not know that you, too, were famous, but perhaps they are recognizing at last what wonderful work you do for us, and for the citizens of Sternbild. As the producer of Hero TV, you are a hero in your own right. Congratulations! And again, congratulations!"

She throws the magazine at his stupid, perfectly chiseled, sweaty chest, then turns around and leaves with all the dignity she can muster, ignoring Dragon Kid's giggles and Wild Tiger's stage whispered, "What's gotten into _her?_ "

***

"I'm so glad he's found someone new," Blue Rose tells her candidly two days later when Agnes has called her to report a robbery on Gold. "He spent so long moping about that girl in the park; it is about time for him to be happy."

"Work," Agnes tells her shortly, rubbing her temples. "Robber. _Points_. Are you the Queen of Heroes or aren't you?"

"I'm just _saying_ ," Blue Rose replies.

"Well, _don't_ ," Agnes orders. She has had a headache nonstop for the last two weeks, dealing with this. Surely people have better things to do than speculate about her love life – but then, it seems she has severely underestimated the stupidity of people at large. And of the heroes in particular.

"Maybe I should put it in the next theme song," Blue Rose muses on the other end of the line. "A Hero TV romance..."

"Do it, and I will not rest until you are fired," Agnes threatens.

"You're no fun," Blue Rose tells her petulantly. "I don't know what Sky High sees in you at all."

" _Nothing_ ," Agnes says forcefully. "There is _nothing to see_. If you don't get out there _right now_ – "

"I'm going, I'm going. Sheesh, you're cranky."

***

Some paparazzo gets a grainy photo of Tiger and Barnaby maybe-possibly-probably nose to nose and just shy of a lip lock. Personally, Agnes thinks they were much more likely to have been arguing at the time it was shot – because Kotetsu doesn't really comprehend personal space, and there is nothing less sexy than giant metal suits, and besides, she likes to hope Barnaby, at least, is smart enough to keep that sort of thing behind closed doors – and the media storm around her alleged love affair with Sky High dies down. She can finally leave her apartment without being followed by some sleazy guy with a camera – they're all camped out outside of Barnaby's apartment, and good riddance.

She celebrates by going shopping on her next day off, treating herself to new lipstick, several blouses, and a cocktail dress in a bright siren red. She feels human again – at least, she does until she leaves Chanel and gets accosted by some dog that seems to have escaped from its owner, leash and all. The leash tangles around her legs, she nearly loses her grip on her bags, and the only reason she doesn't end up with her ass on the pavement is because she is caught, again. She looks up at her rescuer and her headache is suddenly back in full force. "This is not happening to me," she says, as though saying this will make it so.

"I apologize," Keith says. "And again – "

"You apologize," she finishes for him. "Of course you do." This princess carry nonsense is supposed to be Barnaby's thing, though if she's being honest, there's something to be said for being held against Keith's well-muscled chest now that it's not covered up with a hunk of metal – and that train of thought needs to be derailed, immediately. "Are you going to put me down?" she demands.

His cheeks are pink as he sets her on her feet, and she'd like to pretend it's the weather – but it's not hot – or the light – but it's late morning, a long way to sunset – except it's obvious that it isn't and that he is _actually_ blushing like a teenager. Not that he's far from _being_ a teenager. The thought makes her feel old. "You need to keep a better hold on your dog," she tells him.

"Yes, I do," he says, his expression penitent. "Dogs within city limits must be on leashes at all times. I should have been more vigilant. John was very excited; we were going to the park."

"That's nice," she says, in a tone of voice that very clearly states, _I don't care_ , even if she's beginning to suspect that she might, just a little. "Don't let me hold you up," she adds pointedly, when he keeps standing there, looking at her.

"Would you like to come with us?" he asks hopefully. He's still blushing. A grown man – barely, but still – with all those muscles, standing there and blushing. She's often surprised that people like him still _exist_.

"No," she says. "No, I really wouldn't." He looks crestfallen. "Listen," she says, taking a deep breath, wishing she didn't feel quite so much like she is kicking the cheerfully panting dog thumping its tail against the sidewalk, "you seem to have the wrong idea." And thanks to him, so does absolutely everyone else.

"Which idea?" he asks with another of his brilliant smiles.

"The one where... _all of them_ ," she says hopelessly. "I'm ten years older than you. At _least_."

"I enjoy catching you when you fall," he says with a shrug. "And John likes you," he adds, as though the dog's opinion settles everything. For him, it probably does, which is equal parts endearing and terrifying. The fact that she can find it endearing means she has become completely, totally unhinged over the last few weeks. Perhaps she needs a doctor. Or a cold shower.

"I'm going home," she announces. "By myself," she adds, just in case he takes it into his head to escort her. The fact that she can feel him watching her as she walks away – to the point that _she_ might be the one blushing – has her opting for the cold shower the moment she gets home and throws her purchases – which no longer make her feel better – on the couch.

"There is something seriously wrong with me," she tells the shower nozzle, which, of course, does not answer her. "I am not entertaining this idea," she adds. Adding 'cougar' to her accomplishments is not high on her to-do list. "I'm _not_ ," she says again, then dunks her head under the spray.

***

He sends flowers in multicolored vases. And opens doors – sometimes she doesn't even know he is _around_ until he's suddenly holding a door open for her, with a nod and a smile. And it is driving her to distraction.

She makes it a point not to go to the training center anymore, because apparently he has taken to lifting weights without his shirt on – be still her heart, and also, damn his really gorgeous pectorals – and she just can't handle it. Or him, if it comes to that. Which is completely ridiculous since she has not met a man she couldn't handle since she was fourteen and suddenly woke up with curves.

"You know," Nathan tells her as he brings her a glass of champagne at the next corporate function, "I've changed my mind."

"About grabbing Rock Bison's ass in public?" she asks, taking the glass and giving him a warning look, daring him to broach any other subject. "You're right; the viewers don't appreciate it at all. Leave the unresolved sexual tension to Blue Rose and Dragon Kid."

"I'm going to forgive your cruelty; people say all sorts of things out of sexual frustration." Nathan's eyes shine with truly fiendish glee behind his mask as he leans over to whisper, "No, actually, I have to give the boy credit; I'm starting to think he'll eat _you_ alive."

She jerks back, nearly spilling her champagne, and glares. "We are not talking about this."

"Oh, I think you'll like it," Nathan tells her with barely suppressed laughter.

" _I'm not listening_."

"There are a few hundred vacant hotel rooms downstairs," Nathan continued blithely. "If you change your mind."

"Go burn something," she retorts.

***

"If you tell anyone," she pants, "I'll kill you." The threat is a weak one – considering her back is up against the wall and Keith's hand is creeping up her thigh under the extremely tiny red dress – but it's the thought that counts, right?

"You would not break the law, Miss Agnes," he murmurs against her neck, and really, who knew the idiot savant was _this_ good with his lips? She'd never have guessed it prior to this moment.

"Want to bet?" she says, but the tail end of the question is cut off as his hand reaches the lacy edge of her best thong – red, to match the dress, and okay, if she's being honest, she knows _exactly_ why she wore it tonight, damn it all to hell anyway – and he makes a low hum of approval.

"I had hoped you would wear this again," he tells her, and she cannot help a breathy laugh that sounds suspiciously like a giggle – her dignity's shot anyway. 

"It's a different one," she tells him, unbuttoning his shirt in record speed, because if this is going to happen, she intends to enjoy it, and however fabulous her thong – and it's plenty fabulous, she's sure even Nathan would approve – his pectorals are considerably more interesting to her at the moment. She nearly purrs as she runs her hands up his chest, which turns out to feel even better than it looks. She gives serious thought to the idea of licking him all over.

"You have more than one?" A kid on Christmas morning probably doesn't sound this excited. It should be hilarious, not sexy. It's both. She's lost her mind. And that's okay, she thinks, biting down on his collarbone and hearing his startled gasp, that's better than okay, that's fucking _fantastic_. She should have tried this cougar thing years ago. She just didn't know what she was missing.

"I have..." – his hand is making its way under the tiny scrap of lace now – "dozens," she finishes and moans as his fingers brush against her. How long has it been since she's gotten this wound up over a few kisses and touches? Years, surely.

"I would like to see them all," he tells her, and she resolves then and there to go buy a hundred more. Judging by the sizable bulge pressed against her thigh, it will be worth it.

"Start with this one," she suggests, divesting him of his jacket and grinding against his hand, and fortunately for her, he's always been good at following clear instructions.


End file.
